


All the Time in the World (to make you mine)

by concavepatterns



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Darcy's got her shit together, F/M, Loki falls hard (and I'm not talking about the Bifrost bridge), New Year's Eve, Post-Avengers, Smut, but Loki's a bit of a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concavepatterns/pseuds/concavepatterns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of New York Loki is angry and unapologetic, and a chance encounter with a young science intern on New Years Eve only leaves him more unbalanced. He is certain of one thing though: Darcy Lewis will be his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  

He is counting the minutes, as are all the mortals in the room, only he does it for a completely different purpose.

Twenty minutes until the strike of twelve. Twenty minutes until he can return to the quiet sanctuary of his private quarters. Loki counts each second painstakingly.

It was a lapse of judgement that brought him here. He lowered his guard, entertained the idea of attending this party for one moment, and Thor pounced on his hesitation.

Now his so-called brother is nowhere to be found. Likely engaged in some indecent activity with the Foster woman. Loki cannot even stomach the thought of that, and he pushes the notion away violently before an image takes root in his mind.

He has effectively been abandoned in the center of a group of loud, crass Midgardians, each growing more inebriated by the moment as the new year approaches.

Loki curses his own stupidity, tugging at his too-tight tie. He never should have left his room. He could be doing something productive, catching up on his reading rather than wasting his time amongst these lowly, uncultured beings.

The smell of alcohol makes his throat sting and the noise of the ballroom seems amplified to his ears; all the laughter, music, and snippets of conversation melding together and roaring in his head like white noise.

He can’t breathe.

He elbows his way through the crowd, bumping Captain Rogers particularly hard but Loki does not issue an apology. There is no time for that. His head is pounding, he needs space.

When he reaches the edge of the room he sees a set of French doors leading to the balcony outside. He stumbles through the door and staggers forward until he hits the stone railing. His knuckles are white as he grips the rail with both hands, leaning his head over the balcony and gulping in breaths of fresh air until the buzzing in his head finally ceases.

“Dude, you don’t look so good.”

A voice speaks over his shoulder and his hands tighten even harder on the railing. Solitude, that is all he asks for, but apparently it is too great of a request.

He recognizes the voice instantly. Darcy Lewis, the small brunette assistant to Doctor Foster.

When he spins and faces her, face twisted into a sneer as he prepares to tell her off, all the air he so greedily inhaled leaves his lungs instantly.

She is sitting alone on a stone bench in the corner, one leg crossed over the other in a way that causes her black party dress to ride up and expose an obscene amount of one pale thigh.

He tries to look away but his eyes disobey, following the line of her legs down until his gaze rests on her tall, strappy heels. His stomach gives an unexpected lurch and he inhales sharply, focusing his attention anywhere but on those legs.

There is nowhere else to look, though. Her shoulders are bare, appearing to be just as soft and creamy as her thighs, and the mass of her dark hair is thrown over her left shoulder, falling in a perfect tangle of curls that ends just above her cleavage.

“Um, Loki? You okay?” There is concern on her face and it’s only then that Loki realizes he hasn’t spoken a single word; just stared at her like an utter fool.

“Fine.” His voice cracks and he wonders when he became so undeserving of his title of Silver-Tongued Liar.

Lewis can see that he is quite obviously not fine, and she stands, wobbling precariously on her heels as she takes a few hesitant steps towards him.

“Sit,” she urges, “you look like you’re gonna pass out.”

She reaches for his arm but then thinks better of it, letting her hand fall to her side and drawing her lower lip between her teeth in a sign of nervous awkwardness.

She’s afraid of him.

Good.

“I’m fine,” he says again, and this time his voice is steady enough that Lewis does not question it.

She nods her head but makes no move to leave. Even with the extra height of her black pumps, Loki still finds himself looking at her forehead. She really is a tiny thing. His chest feels uncomfortably tight and he turns away from her, bracing his forearms on the stone railing and looking out over the dark expanse of the gardens below.

Lewis copies his movements, leaning her elbows on the flat top of the railing. She’s close enough that Loki can make out the fine details of her features, but not so close so as to actually touch him.

Loki considers making her move but he feels exhausted. He doesn’t have the energy to yell at her so he lets her be, and he very firmly tells himself that this decision has nothing to do with how nice she smells.

“Fucking Stark, eh?” She speaks out of the blue and Loki can only blink at her uncomprehendingly.

“Stark,” she repeats, lifting an arm and gesturing to the gardens with a sweeping motion. “This is all his property. Fucking billionaires, right?” She rolls her eyes and the corner of her mouth quirks up into a crooked smile.

“I am a prince, I am accustomed to wealth,” he says stupidly, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

It’s obviously not the response she was hoping for and her smile drops. “Oh, right. This must be like small potatoes for you. Everything’s bigger and better in Asgard.”

“Everything,” he confirms with a deep look.

She catches his innuendo and blushes. It should not make Loki feel as proud as it does.

“Why are you alone?” The question leaves his lips before he even registers opening his mouth.

Lewis lifts her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Contrary to what everyone might think, I’m actually not much of a party girl,” she admits, tracing her finger along a crack in the stone railing.

Loki can’t help but notice that her nails are painted black to match her dress and shoes. It contrasts with her pale skin and under the subtle light of the moon she looks like an unearthly goddess.

His heart is pounding hard against his ribcage. He tears his eyes away from her but it doesn’t seem to help. He can still feel her presence, taste the scent of her on the back of his tongue, and he briefly wonders if he’s going mad. No woman, Aesir, Midgardian or otherwise, has ever affected him quite like this.

“Why are _you_ alone?” She directs his question back at him as she pulls a piece of hair between her fingers, playing with it absently.

Her hair is a glossy, rich chocolate brown and Loki wonders whether it feels as soft as it looks. He vividly envisions her lying across his bed, the mass of her soft brown waves fanned out over his sheets, and arousal hits him with a hard blow to the stomach.

He wants to take her to his bedroom and fuck her until she’s crying his name.

He wants to throw up.

He isn’t sure what he wants anymore.

“Loki?”

He’s gotten lost in his own head but her voice pulls him out and when he resurfaces, he can only blink at her.

She opens her mouth but whatever she’s about to say is cut off by loud chanting filtering through the open door.

_“Ten...nine...eight...”_

“Almost midnight,” Lewis says, smiling up at him with that odd, crooked smile that Loki has become much too fond of.

“Yes,” he says, brilliant wordsmith that he is.

“Do you have New Years traditions on Asgard? Here you’re supposed to kiss someone at midnight. For good luck or something like that.” Her shoulder brushes against his arm and Loki feels as though his heart has leapt into his throat.

_“Five...four...three...”_

He swallows hard and when he looks into her eyes, he is helpless. They are a dazzling blue, shining vividly despite the lack of light in the sky above. When he drops his gaze to her lips, he finds that they are plump and inviting, stained a flattering shade of red that he aches to taste.

He refuses to deny himself any longer. He hates this party. Hates Stark and Rogers and, most days, Thor as well. Hates Odin for leaving him here. Hates that he’s never able to find a moment of peace in this world that is too noisy, too dirty, too wasteful. He hates everything about this damned realm, except maybe the woman in front of him. He’s endured so much; shouldn’t he allow himself this one small indulgence?

_“Two...one...”_

He dips his head and hears her quick intake of breath just before he presses his lips against hers.

The partygoers inside erupt into a cacophony of cheers and applause but it all goes unnoticed by Loki when Darcy slides her arms around his neck and returns his kiss with a fierceness that surprises him.

Her mouth is warm and pliant and utterly intoxicating, so much better than he could have ever imagined. Loki presses his hand firmly against the small of her back, drawing her body tight against his.

She’s warm all over, he notes, and her soft curves mold against him with an easiness that almost frightens him.

He brings his other hand to her hair, plunging it into the thick strands. Yes, just as soft as he suspected.

She makes a little mewling noise that causes his pulse to quicken. He’s painfully stiff in his pants but he doesn’t know what to do. He feels like’s just been transported back to his youth, inexperienced and unsure of himself.

When she pulls back, she’s panting heavily and watching him with hooded eyes. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen. Loki feels a tug deep in his gut as a sudden streak of possessiveness comes over him. Yes, he decides, he will be the only one to ever kiss those lips. That look of utter pleasure on her face is now reserved for him and him alone.

“Wow,” Darcy’s tongue flicks out to wet her bottom lip and Loki feels himself twitch in his pants. “So if that’s any indication, I’m gonna have one hell of a good new year.”

She grins and it’s the most beautiful thing Loki has ever seen.

“A good year,” Loki echoes as he considers her comment, letting the idea roll around inside his head.

He must look as perplexed as he feels because Lewis is smiling again as she reaches up and wipes a smudge of lipstick off his mouth.

When the pad of her thumb drags across his lower lip, he can feel his heart stutter, missing a beat before it resumes thudding heavily in his chest. He wants to kiss her again. He parts his lips and lets his tongue brush against her thumb.

She sucks in a breath and makes a quiet little ‘oh’ sound and it’s all the encouragement he needs to grip her by the waist and drop his mouth to hers once more.

This time he bucks his hips against her experimentally, gauging her reaction, and he’s pleased to find that she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she pulls him closer, arching her body against him enticingly.

“Fuck,” she rasps once she’s torn her mouth away from his. She slides her hands inside his suit jacket and he can feel the heat of her fingers burn through his shirt and into his skin like a brand as they skim across his ribs and down his back. “Definitely bigger and better.”

He doesn’t understand what she’s saying until she rubs herself against the bulge in the front of his pants, then their earlier talk of Asgard returns to him with startling clarity.

Could she possibly want him?

It seems like such an absurd notion, he dismisses the thought immediately but he cannot deny that she is eager, responsive and yielding to his touch. Perhaps he is affecting her just as much as she is him.

“Would you...that is, may you wish to...” Damn it all to Hel, he can barely speak around this girl.

He is saved from any further embarrassment when Rogers steps out onto the balcony and clears his throat. “Darcy, Jane’s looking for you.”

Her hands drop from his back and when she steps away, Loki instantly misses her touch, feeling a cold, uneasy emptiness settle over him.

“Thanks, Steve. I’ll be right in.” Her voice is still husky as she smiles at Rogers. Loki is pleased to see that it’s a bland, tight-lipped smile, not the small crooked grin she reserves for him (although he still wants to rip the Captain’s head from his body for daring to interrupt them).

Rogers lingers for a moment, as if he can’t quite believe that Darcy is willingly spending time in the company of Loki. When the Captain’s eyes land on him, Loki stares back unblinkingly. He feels a white hot anger beginning to simmer in his veins and he forces the feeling down, distracting himself with the thought of burying a knife deep in Rogers’ belly. It would be a satisfying, bloody death, he thinks.

He is picturing the last rattling breath leaving Rogers’ lungs when Darcy’s fingers wrap around his and pull him back to the present.

“I have to go, my ride’s leaving,” she says apologetically as she squeezes his hand.

When her fingers start sliding out of his, Loki panics and grips her hand tightly, preventing her from drawing away.

Lewis stares at their linked hands for a moment before she raises her face to him. He takes the opportunity to study her properly, to etch every detail of her into his memory before he must let her go.

Her eyelashes are long and full, fanning over her cheeks each time she blinks. Her lips are still wet from his kisses and her lipstick is smeared. The back of her hair is completely disheveled after his fingers combed through the dark waves. She looks as though she’s been thoroughly debauched and a smug sense of satisfaction settles over Loki.

“I want to see you again,” she says, “you’re living here, right? In the tower?”

He despises being caged and watched over by his brother; is furious that he must accept room and board from Tony Stark, but if it means that he will see her again, he will call the Avengers Tower his home for however long the need may be.

“Yes,” he rubs his thumb over her knuckles, reluctant to release her.

She smiles that soft, crooked smile and Loki wonders if she would smile at him like that if he were to be between her legs, making her come. He hopes to find out.

She pulls her fingers from his and reaches up with both hands, gripping the lapels of his jacket as she tugs him down and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Happy New Year, Loki.” Her voice is soft and warm against his ear and then the heat of her body is suddenly gone. She’s walking back into the ballroom, leaving him alone, lost, and slightly dazed.

He will see her again. He holds that knowledge close as he watches her walk away (she looks back over her shoulder once and this immensely pleases him). This is not the end, this is only the beginning. It is the dawn of a new year and he has all the time in the world.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was cleaning up my computer and realized that I'd written this ages ago but never posted it. So now it's getting posted 3 months late :)

His eyes are beginning to burn.

Loki snaps his book shut and sets it aside, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. He lets his eyes slide shut as he attempts to distract himself with something, _anything_ , to take his mind off the fact that he has, in essence, been “grounded”.

Maybe he has a natural inclination to loathe authority figures. Maybe the patch which covers Nicholas Fury’s eye reminds him far too much of Odin. Whatever the reason, Loki has found himself clashing with the Director yet again and this time he has been sent to his room like a misbehaving child, locked in a windowless box with nothing but his books and his last remaining shred of sanity.

He clenches his fist hard until his knuckles feel like they might fracture, focusing on the pain to distract from his burning desire to drive that same fist through the nearest wall. He will not allow himself to act upon his anger. He refuses to give Fury, Thor, or any of the others the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper. They hold no control over him, though a small part of him wryly thinks _is that so? Then why do they have you caged like an animal?_

His anger boils over then and with a snarl, he hurls his book at the wall. The thick spine leaves a satisfying dent in the drywall and Loki wants more. More chaos. More destruction.

He throws the remainder of his books, smashes the water glass that sits beside his bed, and when he moves to overturn the small desk that sits in the corner, he can feel his magic crackling over his skin and suddenly the desk is on fire, tall green flames licking at the wood.

A fire alarm begins to blare and the overhead sprinklers are dousing him in water just as Thor bursts into the room.

“Brother!” Thor has to nearly shout over the screeching alarm and the sound of water raining down from the ceiling. “What madness is this?”

“Leave me be,” Loki warns darkly, “I am in no mood for company.” His hair is plastered to his face, his shirt is soaked, and he still wants to hit something.

“Let me help you,” Thor implores, stepping further into the room. Over his brother’s shoulder, Loki can see a wide-eyed Jane Foster watching him with an odd mixture of contempt and pity.

This is what sends Loki over the edge. Contempt he welcomes, but to be pitied by the mortal lover of his so-called brother...it is more than he can bear.

“I said _leave!_ ” He screams the last word until his throat is raw.

Thor looks startled and hurt, allowing himself to be pushed aside as Rogers and Romanoff come barging into the room.

Loki can feel his blood pressure steadily rising. What part of _leave_ do these idiotic Avengers not understand?

He gathers more green flames in his palms. He’s had enough of this nonsense. He will never be ‘rehabilitated’ or ‘reformed’ no matter how hard Thor may foolishly try to aid him. He would sooner burn this building to the ground than join in the efforts of the Avengers, so he plans to do exactly that.

Before he can toss his first handful of flames, Rogers is diving at him. The soldier sucker-punches him hard in the stomach and Loki doubles over, gasping in equal parts surprise and pain. Rogers takes advantage of his moment of unguarded shock by kicking him in the back of the leg, sending Loki stumbling to the floor.

“I will kill you all. That I promise,” he hisses, ignoring his aching ribs as he tries to stand. “I will slit your throats and string you up by your intestines, display you like a trophy–”

The remainder of his gruesome threat is cut off when Romanoff stabs a needle into his thigh and everything goes dark.

* * *

 

When he comes to, his head is pounding and his throat is dry and aching. His clothes are no longer wet but his hair is still damp and the strands are annoyingly stuck to the side of his neck. When he tries to lift his arm to brush them away, he finds that he cannot move. He’s been bound, both arms chained to the bed he lies in.

A fire flares to life in his chest, fueled by anger and panic. He struggles, straining against his bonds until they bite into the skin of his wrists. His head is throbbing with white hot pain, almost enough to make him sick, but instead of stopping, he pulls harder.

“Shhh,” a voice above him soothes and suddenly a cool cloth is being pressed against his forehead. “Relax. It’s okay.”

He recognizes the voice, smells the familiar scent of her hair, and panic erupts in him anew. Oh Gods, no. He doesn’t want her here, doesn’t want her to see him like this.

He opens his eyes and they blearily come into focus on Darcy Lewis’ frowning face.

“I told them not to do that,” her eyes flicker down to his bound wrists, “but they wouldn’t listen to me.”

“I could kill you.” He forces the words out roughly before lapsing into a series of dry coughs.

Lewis reaches for a glass of water and brings it to his lips. When the cool water touches his tongue he makes a small noise of relief and greedily drinks the entire contents of the cup, choking slightly in his haste to swallow as much as he can.

“More?” Her hand is poised over the water pitcher, ready to fill the glass again, but Loki shakes his head, immediately grimacing in pain when the movement causes the pounding in his head to amplify.

“I know that you could,” Lewis says, sitting back down on the edge of the chair next to his bed, “kill me, I mean. But I also know you won’t.”

Loki tries to give her his most scornful look but judging from the way the corner of her mouth quirks up with amusement, he suspects that it looks more like a childish pout.

“Oh? Do enlighten me,” he croaks, eyes falling shut. He is far too tired to keep them open and he finds that not looking at Lewis’ face helps him feel slightly less embarrassed by his current situation.

“Dunno, I just know.” Her reply is so honest and uncomplicated, Loki finds himself releasing a small, wheezing chuckle. Normally he finds such naivety to be irritating and foolish but on Lewis it’s oddly endearing.

She brings the cloth back to his forehead. It helps to ease his headache and Loki relaxes against his pillow with a soft groan of relief.

He cracks his eyes open to watch her as she works, and he finds that her cheeks are slightly flushed as she concentrates on dabbing the cloth along his temple. Her hair is messy, as if she’s been running her fingers through the dark curls, and her glasses are sliding down her nose. She pushes them back up impatiently before fixing him with that small, crooked smile he’s committed to memory ever since their brief encounter on Stark’s balcony.

The reminder causes a rush of vivid memories to invade his mind, flooding his senses and threatening to overwhelming him. He recalls the glow of her skin under the moonlight, the soft warmth of her mouth on his, the way her body fit against him, and he feels his pulse quicken. His palms itch with the need to touch her.

Loki quickly channels his energy into breaking the cuffs on his wrists but nothing happens. Whatever Romanoff injected into him has left him too weak to perform even the most basic of magic.

This infuriates him and he doesn’t realize that he’s audibly growling until Lewis removes the cloth from his face and leans away.

“Woah,” she says, “what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t want to ask for her assistance, he has already faced enough humiliation to last a century. “The restraints,” he speaks stiffly, “I cannot free myself from them.”

“Well duh,” Lewis responds, giving him a curious look, “that’s the point.”

Gods, she is going to make him actually ask, isn’t she?

“Can you...” he wets his lips, tries again, “can you release me?” He even manages to squeeze out a “please” between gritted teeth.

“Oh,” she looks hesitant, biting her bottom lip in a manner that is far too alluring, “I can’t do that. Technically I’m not even supposed to be here. This wing of the tower is restricted access.”

Loki raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“I annoyed the shit out of Thor until he finally showed me where they were keeping you.” She says with an impish grin, reaching for something in the pocket of her jeans.

She pulls free a small laminated card and holds it out for his inspection. Despite his headache, Loki’s eyes are sharp enough to make out the Stark Industries logo and the name _Odinson, Thor_.

“I made him give me this.” Lewis admits, sounding quite pleased with herself.

Loki feels an unexpected surge of satisfaction in his chest at the thought of this mortal girl harassing Thor and procuring the access card simply because she wished to see him.

He pulls against his bonds again, wishing to any and all deities that he could touch her. He would strip her of her clothing, lay her down on this bed, and truly show his appreciation for her efforts.

“Why?” He cannot resist asking her. “Surely you know that you have made a dangerous decision. You risk alienating yourself; being labeled as a traitor.”

“Yeah, I know.” She sounds sad, defeated. “I guess I hoped...”

“Hoped you could _fix_ me?” Loki cuts in acerbically.

So this is the point of her visit, he thinks, to take advantage of his fondness for her; prey on his weakness and attempt to plea with him. He wonders if it was Thor or Fury who put her up to this, or perhaps she thought of the plan on her own. Volunteered her services of her own free will. The thought of that hurts far more deeply than he cares to admit.

“When will you stupid Midgardians stop interfering in affairs that have nothing to do with you?” He has recited this speech so many times, the words come pouring out of him like an unstoppable force, growing louder and harsher by the second. “I do not want, nor do I need your help. I am not a project to be worked upon. I cannot be fixed because _I am not broken!_ ”

“That’s debatable,” he hears Lewis mutter under her breath.

Loki opens his mouth, a sharp retort loaded on his tongue, but before he can speak, she slaps a hand over his mouth and firmly issues an order of “Be quiet!”

It surprises him enough that he does, in fact, go silent.

“If you cause a scene, guards are gonna come barreling through that door and they’ll kick me out,” she explains. “I don’t exactly have visitor privileges. Thor’s the only one who knows I snuck in here.”

Something in her eyes tells him that she is speaking the truth and the knot of hurt and betrayal in Loki’s chest begins to slowly loosen.

“Are you gonna let me continue now?” She asks bluntly.

This strange girl never ceases to amaze him. If she were anyone else, he would kill her for her insolence. Loki gives a single, sharp nod and she lifts her hand from his mouth.

“What I was going to say was that I hoped I was wrong about how I feel about you.” Her admission causes a light blush to cross her cheeks and in response, Loki’s heart thuds heavily in his chest.

“At New Years,” she looks down, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve, “I thought maybe it was just the champagne and the moonlight. Maybe I was getting caught up in the moment, you know?” She sighs and reaches up to brush a stray curl of hair out of her face. Loki tries not to think of how lovely she looks.  

“And now,” he says quietly, “in the light of day, truly knowing who I am and what I am capable of, what do you feel?”

She goes quiet and in each second that she doesn’t answer, Loki feels himself grow significantly more uneasy. He arranges his face into an unreadable expression, preparing for her to call him a monster without remorse, a murderer, villain, or psychopath. Perhaps she’ll surprise him with something new, an insult that hadn’t been spat in his face a thousand times before.

What she says instead surprises him.

“I feel the same.” She laughs but there is no humor in it. “I was there with Jane, you know. I saw you set your room on fire, I heard you screaming threats, and I still feel the fucking same. Am I completely mental?” She shakes her head ruefully, giving him a tiny, hesitant smile.

“No more so than I am,” Loki murmurs distractedly as he processes her response. Despite all that he has done, she still finds him desirable. He can scarcely believe it.

She laughs and it’s genuine this time. “Fuck, I wish I could take these off of you,” she says longingly, tracing her fingertip over the cuff around his wrist.

“Come here.” Loki says hoarsely. If he cannot move to touch her, he will have her touch him instead.

Lewis stands, smoothing down her sweater before she perches on the edge of the mattress next to him.

“No,” Loki instructs, fighting an amused smile, “come _here_.”

“Oh.” She breathes, understanding dawning on her.

He can see her pulse fluttering in her neck as she leans towards him and slowly lifts one knee onto the mattress. The other knee soon follows and she straddles him carefully, taking care to avoid brushing her pelvis against his, and Loki doesn’t know whether to feel grateful or disappointed.

She bends over him then, weight supported on her hands and knees as she studies his face. Her hair falls forward and tickles his cheek and Loki breathes in the scent that he has so missed during their time apart.

She drops her head and brushes her lips against his, so light and innocent, as if she were kissing a childhood sweetheart rather than a dangerous God who is quite literally chained down for her own protection.

Every cell in his body seems to come alive at her touch as her hands comb through his hair and slide down to his neck, feeling as though they are leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Loki, please,” she whispers against his lips, “promise me you’ll try to stay out of trouble because the next time I see you, I’d really like you to be able to touch me back.”

Her words are needy and pleading, causing a heavy rush of arousal to hit him, and Loki instinctively releases a low groan.

He would give her Valhalla on a silver platter if she asked for it, but this he cannot do. He can make no promise of good behaviour, and for some odd, inexplicable reason, he cannot bring himself to lie to her either, so instead he gives no answer at all as he cranes his neck, capturing her lips in another kiss.

Her mouth is desperate against his now, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Loki knows that she’s about to leave. This is her goodbye.

His body strains against his bonds, the skin of his wrists rubbed raw as he tries to bring himself closer to her, taking from her every bit of warmth and softness that he can, hoping that it will somehow seep into his own skin and he will not be left feeling so cold and alone.

It must end of course, and before long Lewis is pulling away and climbing off of him much sooner than he would have liked. She moves to stand in the doorway, breathing hard with her arms wrapped around her stomach, hugging herself. Loki desperately wishes that he could replace her arms with his own.

The dark look in her eyes tells him that she’d rather not leave but they both know that she must. She’s been gone for too long and that motley crew of do-gooders will likely be looking for her by now.

Her eyes drift over him one last time, and when they come to rest on his bound wrists, they widen with shock. “Loki, you’re bleeding!”

He’s pulled too hard against the cuffs surrounding his wrists and now small trails of blood are slowly dripping down his hands. He barely feels the pain on top of all his other aches and bruises, and when he thinks of her plea and the promise of ‘next time’, the pain nearly disappears altogether.

“Worth it,” he murmurs, and he’s never been so sure of anything in his life.

 


	3. Chapter 3

When Fury deems him ready for his first mission, Loki laughs in the Director’s face.

“You confuse me with one of your Avengers,” he says. “I assure you, I am not Thor.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Fury remarks dryly, leaning back in his chair as he studies Loki. There is an unnerving amount of strength in that one eye but Loki does not shrink under the Director’s glare.

“What would you have me do?” He asks, ensuring that he has injected a fair amount of boredom into his voice. Though he is intrigued to discover exactly why the Director has sought him out, there is no need for Fury to know the extent of his curiosity.

“We need you in Uralsk,” Fury says, “northern Kazakhstan. A very powerful weapon has fallen into the wrong hands and you’re going to bring it back.”

“Why should I?” Loki sneers, leaning forward in his seat until he’s covered half the width of Fury’s desk. “I do not answer to you.”

“Actually, you do.” Fury looks far too smug with his response and it takes every ounce of Loki’s strength to ignore his desire to strangle the man. “While you’re under my roof you work for S.H.I.E.L.D. Secondly,” the Director continues, “I think you’re going to like this particular mission. That weapon? Our recon team says it’s an orange stone.”

Ah well, that _is_ interesting, Loki thinks. An infinity gem no doubt.

“And you trust me to retrieve this stone with no assistance?” He lifts his brows, surprised that Fury is not insisting on saddling him with the company of the soldier or the archer.

“You can handle it.” Fury’s reply is far too simplistic and Loki immediately recognizes it as a lie.

He spends a moment in thoughtful silence, turning over Fury’s words until the Director’s plan begins to reveal itself, taking shape in Loki’s mind.

“This is a suicide mission,” he says as understanding dawns on him. He is to do the dirty work; infiltrate the base and take out as many men as possible before S.H.I.E.L.D. swoops in to retrieve their prize.

Despite Loki’s sharp mind and sharper knowledge of magic, it still seems like a nearly impossible task. Perhaps it _is_ impossible and this is why the Director has chosen him. An Avenger they would never risk, but Loki is a casualty that S.H.I.E.L.D. can afford.

“I’m impressed, Nicholas,” Loki smirks, enjoying the way the Director’s eye twitches at the use of his given name, “you’ve devised quite the cunning plan.”

“I don’t have time for your shit, Loki.” When Fury doesn’t engage, Loki feels mildly disappointed. He wants to make the Director angry; he craves the palpable tension and violence of a loud argument, but instead his words have no effect and Loki’s stomach sinks with a leaden feeling.

These mortals are no longer afraid of him. That will simply not do. He is a _God_ , a being to be feared and respected, and with rage building in his chest, Loki’s hands itch with the desire to reach across the desk and kill the man seated behind it. Surely that would prove that his presence here is not to be taken lightly.

He must spare the Director's life for a few moments longer, though. Loki’s curiosity is too pressing to ignore and he cannot kill Fury when he has questions that remain unanswered.

“Should I accept this _mission,_ ” he says the word with as much disdain as possible, “how do you ensure that I do not betray you and take the stone for myself?”

The smile Fury gives him is thoroughly alarming as the Director slides open the top drawer of his desk, hand dipping inside before he produces a small metal cylinder not much longer than a grain of rice.

“Stark’s tech,” the Director says, holding the microchip between his thumb and forefinger, “a programmable tracker. If you deviate from the plan we _will_ know, and this little tracker here will hit you with enough voltage to take down a man three times your size. God, human, or otherwise.”

“You are _not_ putting that in me,” Loki hisses, hands tightening into fists at the thought of S.H.I.E.L.D. implanting him with the equivalent of a shock collar.

“I had a feeling you’d say that,” Fury says, not at all perturbed by Loki’s outrage. “That’s why I’ve got a contingency plan.”

Loki barely has time to stand before the doors to Fury’s office are bursting open and a rush of agents pour inside.

A dark, wicked smile curls his lips as the agents approach. It has been far too long since he enjoyed a good fight and Loki will quite like feeling their bones snap beneath his hands, he thinks.

In a mere matter of seconds he has reduced the first three agents to crumpled heaps on the floor. It is immensely satisfying but Loki’s victory is short-lived when the fourth agent manages to deliver a solid punch to his jaw that has him staggering off balance.

Loki struggles to push away the pain and regain his focus but it is too late; the agent has already caught his upper arm with the tip of a syringe and as the sedative bleeds into him, Loki faintly thinks of how much he detests those damned needles.

"Cowards,” he spits, pushing the agent away roughly. They are all so weak, so afraid to bloody their hands in a fair fight, instead resorting to their needles and poisons. It is pitiful really, and that is Loki’s final thought before the contents of the syringe begin to take effect, causing his legs to buckle as the room spins.

* * *

 

When he wakes, he finds that he is in his own bed.

Well, not _his own_ bed. He is far from the comforts and familiarity of Asgard. Instead he is laying upon the too-small mattress in the living quarters Stark has provided to him.

Loki lifts his head from the pillow, craning his neck and studying the length of his body. He finds that there is no physical evidence, no visible memento of what has happened to him, aside from a slight purple bruising on his inner arm just below the crook of his elbow. Though the marking is faint, it is a clear indication that the tracker has been successfully implanted.

This knowledge makes him feel ill and Loki stumbles from the bed, pushing his dizziness aside as he manages his way down the hall with a frustratingly little amount of coordination.

He will tear the damned thing out using nothing but his teeth if he must, but when he enters the kitchen he finds that there is a small paring knife sitting beside the sink, almost as if it is waiting for him. He palms the blade, ensuring that it is hidden should he unexpectedly encounter anyone in the hallway.

He does not return to his room, though. Instead he enters the lavatory, swinging the door closed behind him before he stands over the sink and extends his arm, blade poised above pale skin so translucent, he can make out each of the blue veins that crawl along the length of his forearm.

The tracker feels like a disease, a burning sickness beneath his flesh, and Loki is moments from bringing the sharp point of the knife to his skin when he realizes that he is not alone.

He can feel eyes on his back. It is neither Thor nor any of the other Avengers; that he can tell. This gaze is different. It brings a shiver to his spine and Loki has a sinking suspicion that he knows exactly who is watching him.

When he spins around, his assumption is confirmed. He has not shut the door as firmly as he first thought and now Darcy Lewis is standing in the partially open entryway, staring at him with an unreadable look.

When her eyes dart between the knife in his hand and his exposed arm, she releases a string of curses that would make even Stark blush.

“What the hell are you doing?” She’s angry, cheeks flushed and eyes such a stunning shade of blue, they leave Loki momentarily awestruck.

She marches up to him and plucks the knife from his fingers. Loki lets her do it; he is too numb with surprise to do much else but stare as she takes the blade and tosses it into the sink where it lands with a loud clatter.

She is truly tempting when she is angry, Loki thinks. So full of stormy passion and ferocity, it makes his throat go dry as he watches her. It has been so many months since he last saw her; he has spent a great deal of empty nights wishing to hear her voice and touch her skin. Her absence has made his eyes greedy now, desperately taking in every inch of her.

“Loki,” she snaps, voice drawing him from his dazed state. “I asked you a fucking question.”

Perhaps angry is an understatement. She is positively _livid_ and for a moment Loki can do nothing but blink at her.

Gradually his surprise gives way to irritation and despite whatever fondness he may feel for her, the harshness of her words brings upon a burning anger that claws at his chest, eager to escape. He was right in thinking that he is no longer feared; it’s painfully obvious from the way Lewis addresses him now.

Perhaps he has grown too soft, too complacent.

He must remedy that immediately.

“ _Never_ ,” he snarls with a dark cruelness that makes his voice sound almost unrecognizable to his own ears, “speak to me that way again.” He advances on her slowly, backing her up until Lewis is forced to grasp the edge of the sink to keep steady as he presses her hard against the white porcelain.

The look of fright on her face is not nearly as satisfying as he thought it would be. He feels no pleasure in his actions and instead Loki's stomach twists with nausea knowing that he is the cause of her quick, shallow breathing; that his anger has brought upon the wild, fearful beat of her pulse.

The violent bitterness drains out of him then, and though he knows that he should apologize to her, he cannot bring himself to do so. Shame, perhaps, keeps his tongue glued firmly to the roof of his mouth.

Rather than speaking he allows his face to soften and to his relief, Lewis appears to understand that this is the closest thing to an apology that he is able to offer her.

She reaches for him hesitantly, fingers landing soft and gentle on his arm as she turns over his wrist, exposing his inner forearm. When she sees the small smattering of bruises, her lips pulls down into a frown.

“Fuck,” she curses. “I didn’t think they were actually going to use the tracker. It’s really happening then? They’re sending you on your first mission?” She asks, looking up at him tentatively as though she’s trying to gauge his current mood.

“First, last, call it what you may,” Loki replies, feeling his heartbeat accelerate when her fingertips continue to drift over the skin of his arm. “I...” he pauses, taking a moment to clear his throat as he wonders how much he should tell her. For some strange, incomprehensible reason, he feels like he can confess every one of his doubts and sins to this mortal girl. “I fear I shall not return.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lewis shakes her head, fingers squeezing his arm reassuringly. “You’ll have Thor and Cap and-”

Loki’s sharp, sudden bout of laughter cuts her off. She really is such a naive, sweet little thing. “You are mistaken. Fury has made it quite clear that I am to be unaccompanied during this task.”

Her eyes widen at that and Loki feels her hand tighten, gripping him harder now.

“What, did you truly expect Fury to divulge all of his secrets to you?” The question could easily be spoken condescendingly but Loki’s voice holds nothing but honest curiosity as he tilts his head, nose inches from brushing against hers. Gods, she smells good. Better than he remembers.

“Fury, no,” Darcy concedes, meeting his eyes, “but Thor’s a different story.”

Loki frowns. She has a valid point: why has Thor not yet spoken to him?

“He doesn’t know,” he says suddenly. That is the only viable explanation for his brother’s silence in all of this.

“Well then we have to tell him!” Darcy insists with wide, anxious eyes. “He’ll convince Fury that you need back up.”

“No.” Loki’s answer is immediate. He does not need to be saved by his brother. For far too long Thor has come to his defense, acting as his strength when no other would support him and his voice when no one else was willing to hear him. That was many, many years ago and Loki is no longer a helpless child. The thought of Thor coming to his rescue again after all this time makes his skin flush hot with humiliation.

Lewis opens her mouth, about to protest, so Loki issues her a sharp warning. “Do not test me on this. The decision has already been made.”

“Loki, this is insane. You can’t tell me you’re actually okay with letting yourself get killed for S.H.I.E.L.D.” She’s nearly pleading at this point, voice so soft and urging, Loki desperately wishes he could change his mind and speak the words she wants to hear.

“I am not,” Loki admits, voice turning bitter, “but I am tired of this confinement, tired of being told I should feel remorse. If this mission brings me freedom, however short-lived it may be, I must take it. Besides,” he looks away, unable to face her as he adds, “there is nothing for me here.”

When the lie leaves his mouth it sounds so damned weak and obvious, it makes him want to scream. There was a time when he spun intricate lies without effort and charmed even the most guarded souls with his silver tongue, but now he can feel all of that falling away. He is no longer the cunning wordsmith he once was, and hot tears of frustration burn in his eyes when stops to ask himself, _what happened?_

It is a question to which he knows not the answer so Loki pushes it aside and when he gains enough control over the raging chaos inside of him, he looks at Lewis again, finding that she appears to be lost in her own thoughts as well.

“Fuck it,” she breathes so quietly Loki assumes she is speaking to herself rather than him. “Tonight,” she says more loudly now, staring up at him with those vivid blue eyes. “Come to my room. If I’m never gonna see you again, I want to...” she stops, pressing her lips together. She is trying not to cry, Loki realizes, and knowing this makes his heart thump with a dull, heavy pain. “I just need to see you one more time before you go,” she concludes, biting her lower lip as her voice wavers.

“Yes,” Loki agrees with no hesitation; no shame. If he is going to die tomorrow, he will allow himself this one indulgence and take comfort in spending his last hours in the company of Darcy Lewis.

* * *

 

At half past midnight, he enters her room.

She is in her bed, buried so far beneath fluffy white blankets that only the dark waves of her hair are visible, spilling over the sheets like ink across a blank page.

“C’mere,” she whispers, pulling the edge of the blankets back in invitation.

In response Loki’s lungs squeeze tight as his pulse spikes. He has not been invited into a woman’s bed in...Gods, he cannot even remember how long it has been.

He takes off his boots but decides it best to remain in his shirt and trousers as he approaches the unoccupied side of the bed, sliding under the sheets.

Before she pulls the blankets up, Loki catches a glimpse of one pale, creamy thigh. She is wearing little more than a thin sleeveless shirt and undergarments, he realizes as he settles beside her, lying stiffly on his back. He feels absurdly awkward; his hands are clammy and he is already painfully aroused. Perhaps he should not have come to her at all.

“You okay?” Darcy rolls onto her side to face him, eyes shining in the weak moonlight as she readjusts her head on her pillow until their faces are merely inches apart.

“I don’t know,” Loki admits, allowing himself a moment of raw honesty with her that he usually only reserves for Frigga. There is something about Lewis that makes her far too easy to speak with. She is like his mother in that respect; with her he feels no shame in admitting his faults.

Frigga would like this girl, he thinks, and he suspects that Lewis would like his mother in return. Loki does not allow himself the luxury of dreaming that they may ever meet, though. He cannot afford to think that far ahead when he is not even certain if his future extends beyond tomorrow.

“Don’t think about it,” Lewis says quietly, as if she can sense that his thoughts have taken a dark, morbid turn. “Forget about everything. Right now, nothing else exists except for you and me.”

“You are beautiful,” Loki tells her because he doesn’t know what else to say and because it’s the truth; in that moment, with her sleep-rumpled hair and inviting pink lips, she is the most gorgeous thing he has ever laid eyes on.

“Loki,” his name is barely more than a whisper of breath as it leaves her mouth but it is so full of need and longing, Loki’s resolve crumbles.

He cannot ignore his desire any longer so he surges towards her, rolling her onto her back and pressing her hard into the mattress as he dips his head and catches her lips in a hungry kiss.

The noise she makes shoots directly to his groin; a breathy moan that leaves him aching and straining against the front of his pants.

Her fingers plunge into his hair, dragging him closer as she parts her lips, encouraging him to deepen their kiss and Loki concedes, sliding his tongue into her mouth, desperate to taste her.

He doesn’t realize he is grinding against her until she wiggles beneath him, lining him up with her core so that each slide of Loki’s hips makes them both groan at the contact.

“ _Lewis_.” Her surname slips out of his mouth on a low hiss of pleasure when her hands slide down his back, fingers splaying across his rear end and urging him to move against her harder.

“I’m pretty sure,” she gasps out, rolling her hips against him, “that you can call me Darcy now.”

“Darcy.” He lets her name rest on his tongue, finding that he quite likes how it sounds. Even more appealing than her name is the way she shivers beneath him when he says it, so he repeats it over again. “Darcy, _Darcy_.”

“Oh my god.” She’s writhing against him now, all warm curves and wanton lust. “I want you,” she pleads, fingers moving to the front clasp of his trousers. She makes quick work of the button and zipper and then her hands are pushing the material down his hips.

Loki pulls back just long enough to fully rid himself of his clothing. Those few seconds where his body is not pressed against hers is like torture until he finishes pulling his shirt over his head and finally returns to her, finding her mouth and kissing her with an insatiable need.

One hand supports his weight while the other snakes down her hip, following the curve until his fingers brush the lace trim of her panties. His touch is light and yet Lewis – Darcy, he corrects himself. Her name is Darcy and he is sharing her bed and she is arching against him and it is the most glorious moment of his _entire life_ – reacts as if his touch is pure fire, moaning into his mouth and tilting her hips.

She is so ready for him, he can feel it through the thin fabric that covers her, and that is all the encouragement Loki needs to slip his fingers beneath the barrier, finding that she is hot and wet and so incredibly soft, he can scarcely believe that she is allowing him to lie with her like this, to touch her in such an intimate way. He is not worthy of this, he thinks. He is not worthy of _her._

When she senses his hesitation her hand finds his, guiding him further under the edge of fabric until two of his fingers are pushing inside her.

She makes a strangled, needy noise in her throat, wrapping one arm around his neck and tugging until Loki relents and inclines his head to kiss her again. This time when he pulls back, she catches his bottom lip between her teeth and the heady mixture of pleasure and pain sends a fresh rush of desire thrumming through his veins.

“Need you inside me,” she says breathlessly, parting her thighs as her hips rock in time with each shallow thrust of his fingers.

He is powerless to resist such a request so Loki strips off both her panties and the flimsy camisole she wears, letting them fall to the floor before he covers her body with his own, savouring the feeling of her bare skin pressed against his.

He lowers his mouth to her breasts then, tongue swiping over each nipple in turn and causing Darcy to groan loudly as she fists her hand in his hair.

She is the most vocal, expressive lover he has ever had and Loki catalogues each little noise she makes; taking note of the way she sighs when he kisses a particular spot on her neck and the breathy gasp that fills his ears when he finally positions himself at the slick heat of her entrance and begins to sink into her.

Their moans are simultaneous and Loki finds himself shaking when the entirety of his length finally fills her. It is exquisite; being inside of her is Valhalla a thousand times over.

“Are you alright?” His voice is hoarse as he focuses his attention on her face, committing to memory the look of naked bliss she wears.

“More than alright,” she confirms, reaching up to brush back a few errant strands of hair that have fallen forward into his eyes. The sweet innocence of her gesture is almost more than Loki can bear. “Move. Please,” she urges softly, canting her hips.

He gladly complies, building momentum until the slow burn between them sparks into a raging fire so hot and utterly consuming, everything else melts away until all that Loki knows is her face and the feeling of her body moving with his.

“Oh god, oh god,” Darcy is chanting in his ear, voice so beautifully throaty, Loki thinks that there is no better sound in all of the nine realms.

When her nails rake down his back none too gently, his hips jerk and her name leaves his lips in a strangled groan. He cannot hold on much longer. She is too much of everything: warmth, eagerness, softness, passion, temptation. It threatens to drive him mad and he will gladly succumb to insanity if it means that he is able to be with her.

Her whimpers of pleasure soon rise in pitch until each drive of Loki’s hips draws a high whine from deep in her throat. She is close; he can tell from the way her thighs tremble around him and her back arches off the mattress.

She looks so radiant beneath him he wishes the moment never to end. It must though, and he is perilously close to succumbing to the rising wave of ecstasy that threatens to drown him.

He dips his head until their foreheads touch and when Darcy meets his gaze, locking eyes with him and returning his unwavering stare, the last of his restraint is lost.

“Come for me, Darcy,” his voice cracks and he manages two final thrusts before he is gasping and spilling inside her.

“Yes,” she hisses, head thrown back and neck so beautifully bared to him, Loki cannot resist marking her skin with his teeth, “oh my god, _yes_.” He feels her then, fluttering and contracting around him as she finds her release, and he can do nothing more than bury his face in the smooth curve of her neck as the pleasure overtakes him.

“I had no idea that it could feel like that,” she says afterwards as they are curled in each others’ arms, tired and boneless. “So intense and raw and just...fucking magical.” She laughs a little and Loki’s heart swells at the sound.

“You are incredible. You are _everything,”_ he tells her, and the brilliant, heart-stopping smile she gives him in return is worth every ounce of pain and misery he has endured by the hands of Odin, Thanos, and now S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Promise me something,” she rests her chin on his chest, voice quiet but strong as she meets his eyes with a serious look. “I know I said we weren’t going to talk about it, but I need you to promise that you won’t go in there with a death wish tomorrow. Promise you’ll try to come back to me.”

He has never been a convincing liar when it comes to her, so as he pulls her close until he can hear the beating of her heart echoing in his own chest, he murmurs, "Rest now, Darcy." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. That got angsty. I've left this pretty (okay, VERY) open-ended, so a fourth chapter is not entirely out of the question :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, it's a new chapter! Hope you like it :)

The building is falling around him; walls crumbling and air so thick with dust Loki can scarcely breathe.

He is caked in blood, some his own but most not, and his arm is pulsing with white hot pain as it hangs uselessly at his side. At best it’s a dislocated shoulder. At worst, a fracture.

He doesn’t mind the pain though.

It keeps him alert; keeps him going. It’s something tangible to focus on when his mind is otherwise chaotic and unstable.

Everything single nerve ending is screaming in protest but Loki does not slow as his feet step over endless piles of rubble, bringing him closer and closer to his exit point.

It would be quite easy for him to stop, he thinks. He could simply sink down onto the concrete floor and let the failing walls come crashing down around him until they suffocate him, consuming him whole. It’s a rather tempting thought but equally tempting is the orange stone tucked away into the folds of his leathers. He wants to see this mission through; discover what Fury intends to do with the gem, and, perhaps even more pressingly, he wishes to return to the small brunette who waits for him at Stark's tower.

As soon as that notion enters his head, Loki frowns, abruptly pushing it aside.

He is behaving as if he is nothing more than a dog; eager to please and desperate for affection. He is neither of those things and the knowledge that he is merely a tool at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s disposal; that he is so tightly wound around Darcy Lewis’ finger and longing after her like an enamored child, suddenly becomes unbearable. Sickening, even.

He is Loki of Asgard. He answers to no one. He _needs_ no one.

When he at last emerges from the remains of the dilapidated building, he sees the sleek black design of a S.H.I.E.L.D. jet up ahead. He doesn’t try to avoid it. Running would be a futile effort. He has nowhere to go; his body is beaten and his magic is depleted. No, Loki decides, running would serve him no purpose but to exhaust what little energy he has left.

There is a man in front of him now, clad in sunglasses and a dark suit. Over the hum of the jet engine Loki cannot make out what the agent says but he allows himself be pulled towards the jet, only because he is too tired to protest.

“You acquired the asset?” The agent repeats his earlier query once he has pushed Loki into one of the seats lining the edge of the jet’s cabin.

Loki stumbles, hissing as his injured arm crashes into the steel wall of the fuselage. “No,” he lies effortlessly, “you can tell Fury that his precious reconnaissance team is appallingly inept. The stone was not there.”

The agent snorts and produces a short black wand from the pocket of his dark cargo pants. Loki tenses, automatically expecting it to be a weapon, so he is relieved when the agent does nothing more than wave it along the length Loki’s limbs. It’s a detector of some sorts, he realizes then, and as it reaches the lower left side of his torso where the orange stone is safely tucked away, it sounds in a shrill, chirping alarm.

“You think Fury was about to trust a God of Lies on nothing but his word?” The agent gives a smug half-grin that makes Loki seethe. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s smarter than that.” He holds out his hand expectantly and Loki is tempted to slam his knuckles into the man’s face.

His fingers clench into a fist but he does not act on his anger. Instead he pulls the small metallic box from the folds of his Asgardian armor, slapping it down into the agent’s palm with more force than strictly necessary.

The stone is nestled within the thin rectangular casing and as the agent pokes at it, Loki gives him a knowing look. “Best not to open that here,” he warns darkly, “unless you wish to have the flesh torn from your bones inch by inch. The stone’s power will reduce your body to dust, and I assure you, it will not be a quick death.”

That’s enough to make the agent visibly nervous, his posture growing rigid as if he’s just been passed a bomb with a fuse burning shorter and shorter by the second.

With a thin, amused smile, Loki settles back in his seat, cradling his ruined arm and allowing himself a moment to enjoy the look of pure panic on the agent’s face.

The stone is harmless in its current form, but if he must return to the hellish prison known as S.H.I.E.L.D., Loki thinks, then at the very least he will have a bit of fun at their expense.

* * *

 

He refuses medical treatment, dodging Dr. Cho’s attempts at pressing a gauze pad to the cut on his temple and audibly hissing when she tries to inspect his injured arm.

She wisely lets him be after that, and it’s with a sense of tired relief that Loki trudges through the corridors of the tower and returns to his small living quarters.

He makes sure to loudly slam the door behind him before attending to the challenging task of undressing.

Removing his shirt is the most difficult chore. He forces his stubbornly uncooperative shoulder to move; flex and rotate through the pain as he pulls his blood-stained tunic over his head and drops it onto the floor.

Boots and trousers are a far easier endeavor and when he removes them, leaving himself clad in nothing but a pair of thin linen undergarments, he finds that both his stomach and thighs are mottled with ugly bruises and angry red scrapes.

Loki pays no mind to them as he collapses onto the bed, aching body sinking into the soft blankets.

The force of hitting the mattress makes his already throbbing arm scream with a jolt of pain, not unlike a hot knife slicing through his skin, but he simply grits his teeth and closes his eyes, shutting out the glare of the evening sun, the distant wail of sirens on the streets below, and especially the hollow, purposeless feeling that resides deep in his chest.

It’s of no use, though.

He can’t quiet his overwrought mind or bring any semblance of order to his unruly thoughts, so he refocuses his energy on blocking out everything save for the sound of his own breathing.

Try as he might, in his current state - physically exhausted and mentally fraying at the edges - he cannot even manage that.

He should have died on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s assignment. It would have made everything so much simpler. Now here he is, confined in a cell that Stark attempts to disguise as a bed chamber, but Loki knows the truth. He is caged. They will never trust him, never give him the freedom to roam about as Thor does, and rightfully so. If he were allowed such advantages, he would not hesitate to snap each and every one of their necks.

Just as that pleasantly gruesome thought is passing through his mind, there’s a knock at his door.

Loki ignores it, pressing his cheek more firmly into the bedspread and wishing that the material could swallow him, pull him into the void and let him leave this horrid realm behind.

There’s another series of knocks now, louder and more persistent this time, and with frustration boiling over into rage, Loki shoots upwards and crosses the distance to the door in two long, purposeful strides, wrenching it open and snarling, “What?”

A wide-eyed Darcy Lewis stares up at him, her fingers curled into a fist and poised to knock again at a door that’s no longer within her reach. Her hand hovers ridiculously in the air for a moment before it drops back down to her side.

“You’re alive,” she says, and Loki suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at the stupidity of such a banal observation.

“Obviously,” he retorts, making a move to shut the door on her, but her voice stops him.

“More like barely,” she counters; voice strong and eyes full of a myriad of emotions that Loki can’t quite pin down. He recognizes relief and anger, but the rest he cannot (or, more accurately, chooses not) to decipher.

She takes advantage of his moment of hesitance and pushes past him, entering the room and standing by the foot of his bed, folding her arms over her chest and regarding him with a thoughtful frown. Her eyes linger especially long on the map of colored bruises spanning his ribs and stomach, and her frown immediately deepens.

Loki takes a menacing step towards her but is annoyed to find that she doesn’t so much as flinch, not even when he comes uncomfortably close; the bare skin of his collarbone inches from brushing the tip of her nose.

“Was the skin printer broken?” She asks, lifting her chin until she can properly lay eyes on his face.

“What?” He is well aware that he sounds like an incompetent fool but the question leaves his lips before he can stop himself.

She rolls her eyes ( _rolls her eyes -_ at _him_ \- what nerve this little mortal possesses) and elaborates, “Dr. Cho’s cradle. The healing machine. Is it broken?”

Loki shakes his head, attempting to draw his eyes away from the way her hip is so enticingly cocked to the side as she supports the majority of her weight on one leg.

“Then why do you still look so beat up?”

Her need to constantly, relentlessly question him is irritating to say the least, and Loki is in no mood to be pestered. He says as much, growling out, “You try my patience,” as he takes another step forward, and this time, it evokes a response from her.

Darcy sucks in a sharp breath as she stares at him, but Loki sees no fear in her face. Something akin to lust flickers across her features instead and it sets a fire deep within him, an odd combination of frustration and magnetic attraction that urges him forward until he finds himself reaching for her.

He pulls her flush against him, paying no mind to the dull ache of his arm as his hands slide around to the small of her back. He bends her, dipping her like a dancer until the ends of her dark hair are nearly brushing the floor and his grip is the only thing keeping her upright.

He pauses for only an instant, just long enough to commit her look of surprise to memory (her eyes go impossibly wide and her lips unconsciously part in the most alluring way), and then his mouth lands on hers.

It’s far from romantic. He is neither soft nor gentle, but she doesn’t appear to mind.

Her fingers thread into his hair and she kisses him back with an earnestness that makes him groan low in his throat. The feel and taste of her is exquisite, even better than he remembers from their past encounter in her darkened bedroom, that sole night when he gave into his undeniable need for her.

Only after he’s thoroughly explored her mouth with his tongue does she drag her lips away from his.

“Damn,” she breathes, cheeks flushed and eyes shining a more vibrant shade of blue than he ever thought possible, “you’re really good at that.”

“I excel in many other fields as well,” Loki speaks in a low purr, feeling the hint of a smirk begin to take shape on his face. He briefly wonders how she has managed to find this long forgotten playful side of him; to cut it loose from the tangle of misery, hatred, and turmoil that resides within him and pull it so close to his surface. “Shall I remind you?”

He feels both his temperature and heart rate spike when her response comes firmly and without hesitation.

“ _Yes_.”

He has her pressed down onto the bed within moments, hands seeking out every bare inch of skin they can find while their mouths fuse together once more.

She is like fire, he thinks; hot, responsive, and alive beneath his fingertips, igniting his blood with hunger as he drags the collar of her shirt aside and presses a series of heated, open-mouthed kisses to her neck.

She moans and he feels her fingers clench hard in his hair, pulling him closer as she arches her spine. When she rolls her hips against his, Loki’s mind goes blissfully blank aside from one single pressing thought: _he needs her_.

“God, yes,” she encourages with a breathy sigh when his hand eagerly finds the front of her pants, deftly unbuttoning and tugging down the zipper before his fingers are slipping inside, seeking out their goal.

It’s when her hand slinks in between their bodies to cup him through the thin material of his undergarments that he finally remembers himself, and Loki immediately bolts upright, pushing himself away until he’s sitting on the corner of the mattress, leaning his weight on his hands and breathing hard. 

The position makes his arm throb but Loki only presses his palm further into the bedding, focusing on the pain rather than his steadily increasing desire for the young Midgardian before him.

“Um,” he hears Darcy say from her prone position at the head of the bed, “everything okay?”

“I...I should not have...” the end of his sentence remains jumbled on his tongue when she sits up, fixing him with a serious look that contrasts rather comically with her mussed hair and pink cheeks. 

“Like hell you’re stopping,” she says emphatically. “You started this. You’re going to finish it.”

He blinks, vaguely aware that his mouth is gaping open, but he is too stunned to even think of snapping his jaw shut.

“Is that an order?” He finally manages to ask once his dumbfounded state has worn off.

She tilts her head, bright eyes studying him in a way that makes his body feel feverish; naked and exposed under the intensity of her stare.

“More like a very strong suggestion,” she replies, the edge of her mouth pulling up as if she’s fighting the urge to grin. It’s far too charming, too tempting, too beautiful, and Loki cannot resist.  

He surges forward and she squeaks with surprise when his body covers hers once more. There is no hesitation this time, no holding back as his mouth finds hers, stealing her breath in a kiss that leaves his heart hammering in his chest like the quick beat of a drum.

When they part, gasping for air, her eyes are shimmering as she cups his cheek so tenderly, Loki feels as though his body is about to fall apart in her hands.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” she says in a voice that’s wavering with barely contained emotion.

“I didn’t mean to,” he admits before he can stop himself, too lost in the shining depths of her eyes to truly care about the admission.

“Oh, Loki.” There’s a broken sadness in her words but to his relief, she doesn’t offer any further comment, instead pulling him back down to her.

He goes willingly, meeting her desperate kisses with his own as he settles between her thighs, their bodies fitting together with such natural, seamless ease, Loki logically knows that he should be worried by the extent of his feelings for this mortal girl; by the way his body betrays him whenever she is near, but he cannot bring himself to care. She makes him weak. He cannot resist her.

“I need to feel you,” she gasps as his lips find the side of her neck, teeth scraping and tongue swiping across the pale column of skin, “to know that you’re really here. I dreamt about you so many times while you were gone.”

_She thought of him._

The confession makes his heart swell with a warm, intoxicating happiness that is odd and unfamiliar. It’s been a long time since he has felt so wanted by anyone.

“Then you shall have me,” he replies, punctuating his words with a gentle roll of his hips. This he can give her. He only wishes that he could offer her more, but he holds nothing of any great worth. There is only himself, stripped bare of all pride and left with no more than his tarnished name and Jotun blood, and yet for her, that somehow seems to be enough.

At the very core of who he is, she accepts him, and that realization makes Loki’s throat go tight. He may very well fall in love with her if he isn’t careful, he thinks, though a small portion of him knows that it’s already far too late for thoughts of if and maybe. She already owns whatever remains of his damaged, darkened heart.

He’s so lost within his own mind, he doesn’t notice Darcy shifting beneath him until she takes advantage of his lack of awareness and hooks her thigh around his hip, rolling over until she has him pinned beneath her on his back.

“You’re in pain,” she breathes, leaning forward until her lips are brushing his ear, “I can see it on your face. Will you let me look at your arm?”

“Perceptive little thing, aren’t you,” Loki murmurs, amused and rather impressed by just how well she’s able to read him.

“The worst,” she easily agrees. “It annoys the hell out of Fury.”

A raw chuckle climbs its way out of Loki’s throat. It sounds rusty; he can’t remember the last time he laughed without malice, and in that moment, the words are on the tip of his tongue. It would be so easy to allow them to slip out. Instead he reaches up with his uninjured arm, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and murmuring, “I do believe that I adore you, Darcy Lewis.”

It’s the closest confession to love that he will allow himself.

She pauses for a moment, eyes going wide with surprise before she recovers. “If this is some kind of ploy to distract me from the fact that half your body’s busted-”

“I hold no tricks,” Loki promises, “and no lies. Never when it comes to you.”

When she exhales it’s long and shaky, accompanied by a soft nod of her head. “Good," she says, pausing to wet her lips before adding, "because I think I adore you too.”

The confession, in combination with the way she’s straddling him, brings Loki’s growing arousal to the point of pain, straining against the flimsy fabric of his underclothes as he tries to rein in his overwhelming desire to lose himself within her and forget all else.

It is, apparently, a mutual feeling.

When their eyes meet, Loki sees a similar neediness reflected in Darcy’s expression and whatever last wisps of restraint they both hold quickly slips from their grasps, becoming lost in the rushed fumble of clothing and desperate kisses and greedy, eager hands.

When their bodies finally align, Darcy sinks down onto his length and stills, closing her eyes, and Loki takes the opportunity to do the same, reveling in the feeling of being surrounded by her warmth. It’s comfort and pleasure like he’s never known before and when his eyes reopen, he finds that Darcy’s own are now wide and shining as she gazes down at him.

There’s a level of open affection and faith in her expression that knocks the air from his lungs. He’s entirely certain that he isn’t deserving of her trust, but he’s selfish enough to claim it for himself anyway.

“Have I hurt you?” He rasps out, stomach sinking with dread when small tears begin to gather at the edges of her eyes.

Darcy shakes her head. “Just the opposite.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper before she’s pinning his hands above his head, both her palms finding his as their fingers entwine, holding onto each other tightly as her she begins to move.

It’s beautiful, bittersweet and over far too soon for his liking, but oh how lovely she looks as she’s coming undone for him; crying his name as her spine arches and her body trembles.

He drinks in the moment, wishing he could forever remain in the span of those few seconds because in that instant, she is beyond beauty. She is a true goddess, and Loki absently thinks that he could quite happily spend the rest of his days worshiping at her feet.

As her throaty cry of pleasure fills his ears, her hips undulate in a series of final, lazy movements, shamelessly drawing out her orgasm.

“Yes,” Loki groans deeply, his hands cupping her rear end and encouraging her to continue moving. “Yes, Darcy. Take from me all that you desire.”

“Oh, fuck.” The profanity leaves her lips on a half-sob that sounds utterly exquisite to Loki’s ears as she bends her body forward until her forehead is pressed into the crook of his neck and her hands slide to his shoulders, gripping hard and attempting to anchor herself as she rides out the intensity of her climax.

Despite the pain that flares in his arm, Loki holds her tightly as he follows with a low groan, head thrown back and eyes slamming shut.

Their ragged breaths are the only sounds to fill the room until Darcy makes a soft, contented noise, slowly extracting herself from his hold.

Loki’s heart races with panic-filled dread as she lifts herself off of him (he wants her close - _needs_ her close – and the distance already leaves him feeling cold) but he’s relieved to find that she doesn’t move away. Instead she relaxes next to him, rolling onto her side and slipping one leg in between his own so their bodies remain as closely linked as possible. He’s not certain whether it’s a conscious movement on her part but he appreciates it all the same; silently telling her as much as he inclines his head and brushes his mouth over hers, stealing a series of soft kisses that taste so sweet they leave his chest aching.

“I shouldn’t spend the night,” Darcy murmurs with regret, her eyes flicking up to meet his own.

Loki swallows roughly, suppressing the urge to ask her to stay. “Yes,” he croaks out in agreement, “you shouldn’t.”

It’s quite possibly one of the most difficult things he has ever done, but he lays painfully still as Darcy slips out of his bed and dresses herself.

She pauses once in his doorway and opens her mouth as if to speak but no words come out and for a moment she looks so helplessly lost, Loki’s resolve nearly crumbles.

“Good night?” She finally offers; voice so high pitched that the parting words sound unsure.

“Sleep well,” Loki returns softly.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until she is gone and his lungs resume their work as the tension begins to leave his rigid body in one large, weary exhale.

Alone now, he flicks back the blankets and stands, quickly re-dressing with the aid of his magic. There isn’t much to be done; he hasn’t any belongings of monetary or sentimental value to gather, but he needs the time and distance apart from Darcy in order to clear his mind.

Sending her away is no easy task but if she were to remain within his bed, allowing him to so easily hear her soft, measured breaths and recall the feeling of her skin against his own; the encouraging sighs and whimpers so sweetly whispered into his ear, he fears that he would never leave her, and as much as he dislikes the notion, Loki knows that staying simply isn’t an option.

* * *

 

It’s unusually early when Darcy wakes, rolling over and sleepily reaching for Loki, only her hand swipes nothing but the cool, bare mattress and in response she instantly sits upright, blinking until the empty side of her bed comes into focus.

Her confusion slowly fades into realization that she was dreaming about him, _again_ , and Darcy has to remind herself that she had (awkwardly, reluctantly) left his room and gone to bed alone, but still she can't help but mutter to her darkened bedroom, “Where the hell did you go?”

“Not far,” Loki replies, stepping out of the shadows and grinning when she gives a slight jump of surprise.

Her eyes narrow as she takes in his outfit; the heavy leather pants, tall boots and long jacket, and oh yes, Loki thinks with a slight touch of pride, his little mortal is truly perceptive indeed.

“Loki, what are you doing?” The words are spoken slowly and carefully as her eyes continue to study him.

He does not reply, instead coming to stand at her bedside and dropping down into a crouch until their faces are level with one another. He takes her hands in his, squeezing too tight for comfort but he cannot bring himself to loosen his grip. He needs her to know just how important this moment is.

“I will return for you, Darcy Lewis,” he vows, more deeply and adamantly than he’s ever sworn to anything before.

Her response comes in the form of a questioning “ _what?_ ” but it’s swallowed by Loki’s kiss as he claims her mouth. It’s hard and fast yet thorough, both a promise and a parting gesture at once, seeing as how his voice appears to have suddenly abandoned him; emotion leaving his throat tight and rendering him oddly mute.

Darcy’s lips are eager and welcoming against his own but Loki knows he mustn’t linger so when he pulls away, he allows himself only a brief instant to take in her lovely eyes and soft mouth before he calls forth his magic, feeling it spark through his veins.

He releases a long exhale, concentrating as he pictures his destination in his mind’s eye, seeking out a rift and feeling for a path between realms before he blinks out of existence, leaving the tower - leaving _Darcy_ \- behind.

His abrupt disappearance leaves her bewildered for all of two seconds before a loud crash outside her door takes hold of Darcy’s attention and has her swinging her legs out of bed.

When she rushes out into the hallway, she nearly runs face-first into Thor.

The Asgardian steadies her as she stumbles, his large palms coming to rest warmly on her shoulders before he’s inclining his head with an urgent, serious expression. “Loki,” he says without any preamble. “Have you seen him?”

“I – no...why?” The words are of her mouth before she can stop herself and the weight of the lie sits heavy in Darcy's stomach, making her feel sick. She swallows down the uneasy feeling, swaying slightly despite the extra balance of Thor’s hands.

“Because he is gone,” Thor replies grimly, “and so is the infinity stone.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys: the last chapter (for real this time). Thank you for your amazing comments from way back when this was just a little Christmas oneshot all the way up until now. It's all your support and enthusiasm that turned this into an actual fic. Special thanks to Mischiefslady and Ibided whose comments on chapter 4 were super helpful and inspiring. This chapter probably wouldn't exist without you two.

He barely makes it to the dense outer forests of Vanaheim before the last of his magic gives way and drains from his weary, beaten body, leaving him empty and feeling rather naked. His magic is just as much a part of his armour as the fine leather and embossed metal he wears, and without it, Loki feels oddly exposed.

He had not given himself enough time to heal, and frankly, he is surprised that he has made it this far on what little amounts of magic he’s managed to dredge up in order to complete the journey from Midgard. He fully expected to become stranded far before this point; by Nidavellir at the very least.

He drags his tired feet towards the hunting lodge that is mostly obscured by the thick brush of the surrounding forest, glad for the fact that the cabin’s protective charms recognize their creator and grant him entry without hassle. He would be sleeping outside, otherwise. He does not even hold enough last faint sparks of energy to drop the spell surrounding his small, secret residence.

He had come across the abandoned cabin in his younger years, when he was but a teenager by Midgardian standards. From appearances, the lodgings had once been used as a resting place by Vanir warriors. That came as no surprise to Loki. The realm’s annual hunting expeditions were widely known and celebrated heartily before the men made leave and resided within the forests for weeks at a time. The hunt was a signal of the turn of the seasons; a final effort to procure as much meat and fur as possible before the chill of the autumn equinox claimed the air.

This particular cabin had gone unused for quite some time, so Loki had seen fit to claim it as his own. No one, not Thor - not even Frigga - knew of its existence, and Loki had often frequented the space whenever he craved solitude, most often when life within the palace of Asgard had grown too suffocating; the pressure upon his shoulders too heavy to bear.

 _In time, you will hold the throne,_ Odin would tell him. _You must rule wise and fair and firm_. _You were born to be a king_.

Lies.

All of it.

Nothing but a carefully crafted falsity designed by a cunning king masquerading as a father.

Loki was not, it appeared, the only one proficient at tricks and lies.

The extent of Odin’s deceit still churns deep within him, seeping into his blood and curling in wisps around his stomach like a black, toxic smoke.

He shakes off the ill feeling and braces his hand on the weathered wooden door, feeling the protective charm give way as the door creaks open invitingly.

It’s dark and dirty inside, chillingly damp and smelling of wet earth but Loki pays no mind to that as he collapses into a worn chair that is half-cloaked in shadows at corner of the room, closing his eyes.

He’s done it. He controls the time gem and S.H.I.E.L.D. no longer controls him.

He should feel relief, _victory_ even, but instead Loki feels nothing.

Nothing worth addressing, at any rate.

There is a strange tightness within his chest, a painfulness that takes hold of his heart and squeezes like a fist, and if Loki were to give it any attention, he would call it longing. In truth, he is lonely, and in a momentary lapse of judgement, he allows himself to entertain the absurd, foolish thought that he should have extended an invitation for Darcy to join him.

Whether she would have agreed though, that is another issue entirely.

She is far too smart; too good and too moral to be so easily swayed by him, and perhaps that is what he admires most about her. Her strength and will is beyond compare, and in combination with her sharp tongue and bold actions...Gods, she rendered him powerless within mere moments of their first meeting.

He had sought to heal himself through her; to take solace in her warmth, lose himself in her body and perhaps find a purpose amidst her soft touches and throaty moans.

And that is why he had to leave.

He could not place such a burden upon her. She cannot be his saviour when he is still so unsure of whether he is even worth saving.

He tries to tell himself that he does not seek redemption, that he had no desire to mend the jagged rift between himself and his former family, but he feels so isolated, confused and alone, Loki thinks that the only explanation for the painful emptiness he feels must be his suppressed desire to return things to the way they once were.

But just how badly does he desire change?

That is the question that plagues him now, and as he shifts in his chair, the small metal box tucked into the folds of his armour digs into the skin below his ribcage, as if reminding him of its presence. It’s almost as though he can feel the heat of the orange stone burning through the layers of metal and leather and cloth until it brands his skin like an iron.

It was rather good fortune on Loki’s part that the weapon Fury so desperately sought to acquire was in fact an infinity stone, and the time gem at that; giving those who wield it the power to bend the past and present at will.

Loki is well aware that meddling with time of all things is not an endeavor to be taken lightly, and the weight of the small stone suddenly feels impossibly heavy as he struggles with his decision.

He could return to a time before striking his deal with Thanos; set a new path and kill the Mad Titan outright. He would be heralded as a saviour. Perhaps then he would be regarded with the same awe and adoration as Thor.

But why stop there, Loki thinks as his heart suddenly picks up pace; a larger, more appealing plan taking shape within his mind.

He could _forget_. He could travel back to the days before Thor’s coronation, stop his thick-headed oaf of a brother from waging war against the Jotuns, and erase every event to follow after that. He could wipe out all the pain, anger and self-loathing brought on by Odin’s lies. He could be a true prince of Asgard once again.

His hand twitches with a sudden desire to reach for the stone, but Loki forces himself to pause. He mustn’t be hasty; the after-effects of such a large decision would be numerous and far-reaching, rippling outwards in waves like a stone tossed into a calm river, and his mouth pulls down into a deep frown as a new thought occurs to him.

Would it truly do any good?

Despite the stone’s power he would remain a Frost Giant at heart, and surely Loki would eventually discover his true heritage, whether that moment came in one year or one century. He can cover the truth all he wants; reverse the past and turn a blind eye, but the fact remains, he will always hold Jotun blood.

And that, Loki thinks with a sad, crushingly hopeless feeling, will forever remain the root of his problem. It can never be altered; never be fixed no matter how badly he may wish to change it.

A sudden wave of despair washes over him and he wants to cry. He wants to reduce the cabin to a pile of splintered wood. He wants a sympathetic ear and the comfort of warm, caring arms.

He wants _Darcy_.

She is the most distressing issue that currently plagues him, and Loki feels his stomach lurch at the mere thought of her.

If he were to change any or all of the past, it would set him on an entirely different course of events and he would never set foot upon Midgard. He would never be kept under the care of the Avengers. He would never be dragged to Stark’s revoltingly lavish yuletide celebration. He would never know the name Darcy Lewis.  

It’s an embarrassing lack of planning on his part, now that Loki considers it. He was far too caught up in the romanticism of the moment when he took her hand and made his vow within her darkened bedroom. He promised that he would return for her once he made use of the time gem, but if he were to do so, he would be a virtual stranger to her, and Loki knows that in no universe would he ever be lucky enough – _worthy_ enough – to win her affection for a second time.

She has been his one consolation in all of this; a bright spot amongst his dark, desolate existence upon Midgard, and he fears that he is far too selfish to ever let her go.

However, if he were not to use the gem, he would face no other choice but to disappear into hiding; to exile himself from both Midgard and Asgard for the foreseeable future (a bleak and lonely future free of the company of his Darcy; of Frigga and Thor).

One alternative remains though, as unsavory as it may be. He could return to S.H.I.E.L.D. like a mutt with its tail between his legs, meekly handing that hard-earned stone to Fury before allowing himself to be shackled once more. The thought of that is sickening, causing Loki’s stomach to roll with an unpleasant sourness. He will not be their prisoner, their asset, their puppet any longer.

A dull, pounding headache is taking shape behind his eyes and with a grimace, Loki rakes a hand through his hair. He is too exhausted to continue seeking elusive answers to such complex questions.

Resigning himself to the fact that he will accomplish no more on the matter tonight, he tries to sleep, but with each attempt to close his eyes, all he sees is Darcy.

She forever lingers at the edges of his mind and in the chilled emptiness of the cabin, he calls forth the memory of her now, coaxing it from a small flicker into a burning fire until it warms his chest and soothes him into a calmer state.

It is her eyes that he remembers most clearly, Loki thinks. So large and expressive, shining a brilliant cerulean when she is happy, and darkening to a stormy shade of slate when angry.

His thoughts drift as he draws a map of her face within his mind; recalling full, inviting lips and creamy skin flushed pink from his attentions.

In his fantasy, his gaze turns lower, greedily taking in the delicate column of her neck and soft curve of her shoulders, and Loki does not realise that his own hand moves in time with his thoughts until his palm is resting below his navel, intent on reaching the clasp of his trousers.

A hot rush of embarrassment washes over him, but it does nothing to lessen the pain of his arousal.

Could he...?

No, his desire is nothing more than a weakness brought on by his lengthy stay upon Midgard. It does not need to be indulged, and he will not put his memories of Darcy to use in such a crude manner.

It wouldn’t be proper, but Gods, how he wants to imagine, if only for a moment, that they are together once more. That her lovely cries of pleasure are filling his ears. That her soft thighs are cradling him as she urges him on, _deeper, harder, more, more, more._

He is achingly hard now, straining against the confines of his leathers, and as his hand moves of its own volition, Loki faintly thinks that this is fitting, really. A better man would have resisted; would have remained decent and honorable in the face of such temptation, but he...he has never much thought himself a hero.

He slouches deep in his chair, legs spread wide as he makes quick work of the laces and closures adorning his trousers, and then he’s palming the hot length of his arousal, giving one slow pump and _oh._ Already it causes an intense pleasure to travel through him, tightening in the base of his spine. He is embarrassingly - _pathetically_ \- eager for this.

With his eyes closed, he can almost imagine that it is Darcy who touches him; moving with firm, sure strokes from base to tip that draw a strangled noise from deep in Loki’s throat. He pictures her straddling his lap, one hand snaked between their bodies to grip him tight while her lips rest at his ear as she breathes a string of filthy words to him, painting an oral picture of what she would do to him, and, perhaps even more appealing, what she would have him do to her.

She would tease him mercilessly; of that he is certain. His Darcy would draw him to the edge and then retreat, slowing her motions until his cock was pulsing with painful need and he found himself desperately thrusting into her hand, cursing her and exalting her all at once until she would pull her palm away and position herself over him, thighs parting wide before sinking down until he was snugly buried within her impossibly soft, intoxicating heat.

From there it would take no time at all; their bodies finding a perfect rhythm and Loki would bury his face in her neck, clenching his jaw and staving off his own release until he was certain that she would find hers as well, and only when he would feel her contract around him, arching against him desperately and calling his name on a needy, pleasure-filled moan, would he yield and join her.

At that image, his hips give a sudden jerk and Loki’s lips part in a quiet groan that sounds suspiciously like her name. The pressure builds; a heat radiating through his body until it’s nearly unbearable and he is forced to brace both feet flat on the floor, breathing harshly as he clings to the fantasy playing out in his mind. He does not want it to end. Does not want to leave her. Does not want to be alone again. Not yet.

It’s when he pictures the aftermath of their coupling - Darcy tucked tight within his arms, her breath warm on his skin and their fingers entwined as they murmur quiet, tender words - Loki’s heart gives a painful throb within his chest and his hand passes over the sensitive head of his cock once, twice, thrice more until he’s coming with an intensity that leaves him gasping for air.

The shame only hits him afterwards, as his chest is heaving and he’s tidying the mess he’s made with slightly trembling hands.

What he’s done feels wrong. Utterly, undeniably, sickeningly wrong, and for the first time in what feels like centuries, as Loki wipes himself clean and forces back the burning, prickling sensation behind his eyes, he wishes that he could be that hero.

Perhaps, he thinks, he could try forging a new future rather than meddling with the past.

Perhaps it is time that he sought to discover just what it feels like to be the better man.

*                      *                      *

He does so enjoy making a grand entrance, so he sweeps into Fury’s office in full armour and unceremoniously tosses the rectangular box onto the Director’s desk as if it contains something as insignificant as a dead rat rather than a highly dangerous, potentially world-ending artifact of limitless power.

“I offer you a trade,” he says by way of greeting. “The infinity stone in exchange for my release from S.H.I.E.L.D. I will not be one of your Avengers.”

To his displeasure, his sudden return does little to perturb Fury. The Director barely so much as bats an eye as he examines the box, and once he seems satisfied that it does in fact hold the stone, he leans back in his seat, glancing to Loki. “I thought as much,” he replies simply. “How does Tactical Consultant sound instead?”

Loki’s brows draw down. He was not expecting his demand to be met with such blithe agreement.

When he offers a reply in the form of an inquiring lift of one eyebrow, Fury elaborates. “Since we’re having this conversation, you obviously didn’t use this,” the Director holds up the rectangular box between two fingers. “You could have done any number of stupid things with that stone, but in the end, you didn’t. You returned it. You did a good thing, Loki. I’d almost go so far as to call it noble, but I like to think I’m smarter than that.”

“Do you now?” Loki murmurs dryly, ensuring that the words are infused with a fair amount of amused skepticism.

Fury ignores the comment, though the lines of his face seem to subtly harden with annoyance, and Loki feels a swell of satisfaction at having successfully provoked the Director, however small a reaction it might be.

“Look, whatever brought you back here, whatever hidden agenda you’ve got, that’s your business. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s done trying to police you,” Fury is decidedly blunt as he continues, “so you take whatever punishment Asgard deals out, and we’ll call it good.”

He pauses, allowing the weight of that statement to sink in as he carefully places the box back on the centre of the desk before returning his attention to Loki. “If a mission goes sideways or we find ourselves dealing with alien tech, you still have an obligation to help S.H.I.E.L.D., but otherwise, consider yourself officially discharged.”

“I would be giving you orders?” The hint of a smirk pulls at Loki’s mouth. That, he thinks, is something that he could become quite accustomed to.

“You would be giving _advice_ ,” Fury corrects with an irritable look.

Loki barely contains the urge to laugh. Advice is frivolous; an empty, superficial term devised by those who refuse to admit that they lack the necessary knowledge and capability. Nevertheless, the bulk of Fury’s words sound undeniably pleasant to Loki’s ears. It would seem that S.H.I.E.L.D. has finally recognized that they are wasting their efforts on him; that he is not - and shall never be - theirs to control.

This turn of events is surprising to say the least. He does not quite know how to feel about it, Loki thinks, but he will not question Fury’s decision. No, that would be blatant stupidity on his part. He has no cause for quarrel now. He is a prisoner of S.H.I.E.L.D. no longer; his cage has finally been unlocked and he is not about to sit within it for a moment longer.

“And when you do not require my services, what am I to do?” Loki questions with a small amount of lingering suspicion. Perhaps it’s in his nature as a trickster and a liesmith; he knows all too well that one should never accept a deal at face value.

At that, Fury merely shrugs. “That’s for you to decide.”

*                    *                      *

He finds her deep within the research library on the 29th floor.

It is truly ridiculous, he thinks. At long last he is free of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s grasp; he no longer holds any tie to Midgard, and yet he has not so much as exited the building. He cannot bring himself to return to Asgard.

Not yet.

Not without seeing her.

Where he would normally feel annoyance or outright anger at such a weak and sentimental thought, he now only feels a faint sense of eagerness as he makes his way through the rows of shelves with long, quick strides.

Gods, he physically _aches_ with the need to touch her.

She’s sitting at a table in the back of the room, absently worrying her lower lip between her teeth as she pours over the thick text open before her. With her unruly hair pushed to the side and the collar of her oversized sweater revealing a glimpse of one bare shoulder, for a moment, Loki can only stare. The sight of her takes his breath away.

“ _Darcy_.” His voice cracks and her eyes dart upwards, growing almost comically wide when she sees him.

She stands so quickly that her chair topples over, hitting the floor with a loud thunk, but the noise barely registers in Loki’s ears because she’s rushing towards him, coming to an abrupt halt with mere inches to spare between their bodies, and then...and then, she _hits_ him.

Shock keeps him frozen in place and her fist catches his jaw, not enough to physically hurt, but regardless he feels a twinge of pain centred in his chest. Her anger is warranted, Loki knows, but that does not mean that he enjoys being the cause of her irritation.

“I suppose I deserve that,” he murmurs, briefly touching the stinging skin of his jaw as he gazes down at her.

“You’re damn right you do.” Her eyes are sparkling bright with emotion as she reprimands him. “You left! You stole the gem and you fucking ran away! Oh my god, you ass. You total, gigantic, absolute _idiot_ -” and then she’s grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, yanking him down and kissing him hard.

Loki makes a soft noise of surprise that’s immediately swallowed by her mouth as Darcy tilts her head, deepening the kiss and rendering him weak with need. It’s fierce, desperate and clumsy, and this, he thinks, _this_ must be what Valhalla feels like.

“We need to talk,” she gasps once she’s withdrawn, but her breath is still warm on his lips and Loki cannot resist tasting her again so he drops a series of soft, sweet kisses to her mouth that grow progressively longer and deeper until he finds himself backing her against the table.

“I didn’t use it,” he tells her earnestly, pressing his forehead to hers as he struggles to return his breathing to a somewhat normal rate. “I wanted to. I thought it would solve everything-”

“I know, babe.” Darcy hushes him with a chaste kiss and the simple term of endearment causes a warm, pleased feeling to flood Loki’s chest. “When I said that we needed to talk, I didn’t mean it had to be right now.” The smile she gives him is that of a wicked temptress and Loki groans low in his throat. He has never wanted her more.

“Darcy, may I...?” His palm finds the curve of her hip and squeezes in question.

Her response is a breathy, inelegant “fuck yeah” and then he’s helping her wiggle out of the denim covering her legs, and when he bends low to pull the material off her ankles, he pauses to place small, open-mouthed kisses to her hipbone and inner thigh.

Darcy pulls in a sharp breath and her hand sinks into his hair as Loki grows bolder, nosing a path towards the apex of her thighs.

“Lay back,” he directs in a voice that’s thick with intent.

His tone seems to have a direct affect on her, causing her to visibly shiver, and the noise she makes as she leans back shoots directly to his cock, forcing Loki to temporarily pause in order to regain his control. The desire to bend her over the table and take her roughly is overwhelming, but he will go about this slowly. He will worship her properly, filling the action with all the words of apology and affection that he can’t seem to speak aloud.

He begins slowly, savoring each faint whimper and small sigh that escapes her lips as he carefully runs his tongue over her slit. She is soft and warm and so impossibly wet for him, he cannot hold back the urge to groan as he angles his head just enough that he is able to slip the tip of his tongue between her folds, tasting her; teasing her.

Darcy sucks in a shuddering breath and her legs fall open even wider. “More,” she encourages, voice beautifully low and throaty with arousal.

“All in good time, darling,” he returns in a deep purr, briefly raising his eyes to meet her own. “Have patience; I will make this worth your while.”

She bites her lip then, pulling the plump flesh between her teeth, and Loki is enormously tempted to taste her mouth again, but he mustn’t be greedy. That will come far later. For now, he is only focused on her.

With his eyes still locked on hers, he resumes his earlier actions, tongue flicking out to taste her again as he sets a brutally slow pace that has her panting and writhing in an attempt to guide his mouth closer to where she wants him.

“Please, Loki,” she whines, knotting her fingers in his hair, and the pure neediness in her voice is nearly his undoing.

He rewards her with a firm, long lick, mouth finally moving upwards and reaching her neglected clit, circling it with his tongue before he positions his lips around it and sucks _hard._

Darcy instantly gasps, spine arching as her hand tightens in his hair, almost to the point of pain, but Loki does not care. Her reaction is more than worth any discomfort on his part.

“Oh god,” she moans wantonly, and it is the sweetest sound that Loki has ever heard.

“Tell me, Darcy,” he kisses a line up the soft skin of her belly, pausing to swirl his tongue around her navel and delighting in the way the muscles low in her stomach seem to quiver at his touch. “What do you want?”

“I want...” she tries to roll her hips, making a frustrated noise in her throat when he keeps her pressed down on the table with one large, warm palm; the other hand climbing upwards underneath her sweater to softly brush the underside of her breast. “Fuck,” she arches again, a silent request for him to rid her of her remaining clothing, “I want you. Just you.”

There is a heavy, heartfelt quality to her voice that gives him pause, and for a moment, Loki feels frozen in place as he tries to process her confession.

“You would not prefer a true Prince of Asgard? One of noble name and rank?” He cannot stop the questions that pour from his mouth as he arranges his face into a neutral mask, hiding the cold, uneasy sense of impending dread that suddenly fills his stomach.

He is an outcast, a villain, and a victim. His mind and heart are every bit as chaotic as his title of God of Mischief implies, only he holds no good-natured trickery now; he is a broken mess, and though his time away has allowed him to begin to piece himself back together, Loki knows that he must paint a terribly unappealing image. Surely Darcy will soon realize her error and take back her words.

She studies his face for one long, agonizing moment in which Loki does not breathe, and then she cups his cheek; hand soft and gentle as she meets his eyes.

“Just you,” she repeats softly but surely. “I only want you.”

He nearly falls apart under the warm weight of her words and the tender affection in her touch, and Loki can do little more than drop his mouth to hers, kissing her soundly, hoping the action conveys every ounce of the uninhibited emotion that floods through his body in that moment.

Darcy’s lips part for him easily as he deepens the kiss, sweeping his tongue into her mouth, and then her hands are returning to his hair; nails scraping lightly over his scalp and drawing a rough noise of pleasure from his throat.

“Make love to me right now,” she whispers as they pull apart, breath ragged and chests heaving, and Loki knows that her choice of words is deliberate; she has never censored herself in his presence before. She is ensuring that he understands that this is no quick, secretive romp, no lust-filled act of fucking. This is deliberate and measured and _Gods_ , he wants this so badly, he can barely breathe.

“I love you.” The phrase leaves his mouth suddenly, feeling so natural on his tongue, so _right_ , he scarcely even realizes that he’s said it aloud until he sees Darcy’s eyes grow shiny with moisture as she grants him the gift of a beautifully brilliant smile.

“I had my suspicions,” she says, aiming for what Loki assumes to be a teasing tone, though the thick emotion in her voice somewhat distracts from the effect, “but it’s really nice to hear you say it.” She pauses then, gathering a deep breath as she studies his face with impossibly bright blue eyes. “I love you too.”

A raw spark of happiness bursts within his chest like a firework, and when Loki captures her lips again, he can very nearly taste her smile, and it makes his own mouth curve upwards in response.

“Say that again,” he murmurs against her lips, sure that he looks every bit a lovestruck fool at the moment, but because it is _her_ , he finds that cannot bring himself to care.

“I love you,” she repeats as he begins impatiently ridding her of that cumbersome sweater, unlatching her bra and then making quick work of his own clothing, “I love you, I – _ah_ ,” she breaks off with a gasp when he closes his mouth around one nipple.

The way she shivers against him, arching her back and offering more of herself, makes him painfully hard, and as he is giving her other breast equal attention, he closes his hands around her thighs, gently pulling her closer to the edge of the table.

Darcy’s breathing immediately deepens, eyes darkening attractively with arousal. “Please,” she says, canting her hips and instinctively locking her legs around him the moment he steps closer.

He fits so perfectly between her thighs, Loki thinks, as if he is meant to be there. Perhaps he is. Perhaps this is his true calling; not the throne of Asgard or reckless domination of Midgard, but simply to exist alongside her. To strive to be worthy of that look of adoration in her eyes. It’s a rather nice thought, he finds.

Darcy makes an impatient sound, drawing him back to the present, so he moves to align their bodies, bending over her to watch the look of bliss that crosses her face when his length brushes her slick heat.

He sinks into her slowly, and the noise he makes would be entirely undignified under any other circumstance, but Darcy is matching his moans with equal volume, her head thrown back and full lips parted in a picture of divine beauty, and the sight causes all remaining sense of thought and reason to abandon him.

After only three strokes, her nails are digging into his back and she’s murmuring deliciously vulgar words in his ear.

“When this is over,” she pauses, tongue peeking out to wet her bottom lip and Loki nearly comes from that act alone, “you’re going to really fuck me, hard and fast and rough. And after that, it’s going to be so slow that it _hurts_ , and then...” the remainder of her words are lost in a low whimper as her thighs clench tight around him.

“And then?” Loki prompts, eager to hear the rest of her desires. He feels his muscles tensing as he attempts to maintain his pace, thrusts becoming erratic and more disjointed. He is perilously close but he staves off his release, waiting for her to first let go. “Tell me, Darcy,” he practically growls, and with another rock of his hips he feels her begin to contract around him.

“Then,” she says breathlessly, voice wobbling as she nears her peak, “we fall asleep together, and this time, you won’t leave me.”

His heart clenches painfully and Loki bows his head, kissing her deeply. “Never again,” he promises, and then she’s coming undone in the most beautiful manner, and he gladly follows her over the edge.

*               *                *

“What happens now?” Darcy asks afterwards.

They are entangled on her bed; Loki’s back resting against the headboard while Darcy curls up comfortably in his lap. Her head is tucked under his chin, breath pleasantly warm as it ghosts across his skin, and when she presses a kiss to his throat, snuggling closer, a great rush of affection floods his veins, warming his entire body from the inside out. The extent of his love for her is nearly overwhelming.

It’s as if a great weight has been lifted from his chest as he gazes down at the woman in his arms, and when Loki opens his mouth to reply, the truth flows forward freely. “Now,” he says, “we do whatever we want.”

 

 


End file.
